circle of subterfuge
by x- on gossamer wings
Summary: x- "this Quell, every tribute will be chosen from the Capitol. Furthermore, all ages are eligible." 500th Games; Capitol tributes; a whirlwind of trouble. for Irene D.


_circle of subterfuge_

_AU, rated __**t, **__disclaimed, Evangeline Emerald POV, hunger games, for Irene D. _

…

We twirl on the dance floor.

As to be anticipated, I'm not the twirling sort of woman, but we twirl anyways. In his defense, he doesn't touch me inappropriately or attempt to joke around, like my last two previous suitors. Rather, he makes polite conversation about the Hunger Games and what entertainment the Quarter Quell may bring.

"And to think, we've finally reached the number 500; they ought to be doing something big this year," Derek remarks, and I agree. At least I think is name is Derek, but I can't remember correctly.

"Yes—and to think, Derek, we're lucky enough to be alive for a Quell! Several people are saying we're lucky to witness a Quell in our youth," I say, testing out the name casually. His lips twitch in amusement, and he catches my subtle attempt at my name confirmation effort. _What a poorly crafted sentence, _I muse inwardly.

"Indeed they are, Evangeline Emerald," he says my full name and I resist the urge to cringe, for everybody just calls me Eva and omits my last name from the equation. In the place of smacking him, for I usually don't choose to attack strangers, I chuckle.

"When are they announcing the annual twist?" Derek moves forth in the conversation, leaving behind the playful banter we'd only just acquired. I can't blame him for falling back into the easy pattern of discussing factual events, for I do the same thing—and then fail to progress in friendship.

The two of us shift, angle our bodies downward, and wiggle as we bend our knees, only to straighten them again in time to the beat of this new song, for our elegant opera has ended and everyone is currently dropping it like it's hot. "Tonight," I huff in between pulsing beats of music. This song is a popular one and has everybody on the dance floor. We move closer together to hear each other and straighten.

"Will you be able to come over to my house tonight and watch the announcement with me?" Derek suggests with the utmost nonchalance. I am startled, but hastily agree. Derek could make a good acquaintance, even a close friend in the near future. Perhaps we'll make habit of watching television together and it'll escalate to more, and I'll finally get married like all of my family wants me to…

I am a twenty-three year old single woman and something of a disgrace, for intelligence is the equivalent of manure—useful, however, undesired. Everyone here in Panem is paired off by seventeen, and I'm not getting any younger. There are few eligible bachelors who have the decency to become marriage material, for all that are left now are the drunkards, those who are too sick to invest in a romantic relationship (let alone marriage), and oh, of course—me.

But I've gotten lucky, with Derek here. I smile at him and the song changes abruptly, _again_. A fine excuse for a DJ—my family has paid him thousands merely to show up and he'd doing such a crap job. My mother in particular often hosts such events, casual get-togethers in which she invites everyone male my age to our quaint, rented space for a party in the hopes that I'll find a husband, and fast. Every time someone new moves into town (enter Derek), she throws another party, hoping that they themselves are appropriate for me or have a brother who_ is_. "So, a fine man like you is unmarried? Pray tell, what's the situation?"

Derek laughs lightly, a sound I could undoubtedly become accustomed to. "I have my imperfections, Eva. We can discuss them another time."

I pout but he doesn't budge. So we lapse into silence and then dance again, on into the night, waiting for our latest entertainment to arrive—the announcement of what is to come in these Hunger Games.

…

"It has been secretive, the decision of this Quell," an ivory skinned man says grimly on our television—well, really, _Derek's _television. "And yet it has been inevitable. You will see what I mean very, very soon." He fingers a thin slip of paper labeled _**500**__**th**___in bold, large letters and it is clear he has read the announcement prior to disclosing the information on television. Derek shifts in his seat and I lean forward eagerly.

"To remind all of Panem that even those who are presumed to be safe will experience complication in life and that rebellion on any side is dangerous yet anticipated and blocked by our elite defenses—" the man stops to take a breath and then continues, "this Quell, every tribute will be chosen from the Capitol. Furthermore, all ages are eligible."

Derek is on his feet, shouting, and he has already pressed the remote to turn off the television. Likewise, I feel like sitting down on this red leather couch forever, unmoving, still and silent. It usually does take me a while to process shocking information, and this certainly is shocking. It's beyond my degree of understanding, really, for I close my eyes and take several moments to process this ludicrous proclamation, hoping the pale man has somehow misread all forty-four words he has just uttered that pertain to what our Quell will consist of.

"This is illegal, isn't this illegal?" Derek is saying to me now, shaking my shoulder. I slump, dumbfounded; maybe it is illegal. I raise an eyebrow, indicating my bewilderment.

"How in the devil's name am I supposed to know?" I demand evenly. Derek is lucky we only just met, for had we been proper friends I would've given him a much worse word than _devil. _I'm armed with quite an expansive and vulgar vocabulary, dare I say so myself. He doesn't reply, just sits beside me as it soaks into his brain that there is a very real chance of death, for the both of us. For everyone we love, really.

"Is this how the District people feel when they hear a quarter quell, when they are being reaped?" I say to Derek quietly, voice muffled by the silken pillows draped across the fine seating. In the midst of this onslaught of despair, my ass is being pampered via Derek's money and superior taste. I laugh at the irony of it all—_hey, my heart's just dropped into my stomach, but at least my ass is feeling fine! _Derek looks at me confusedly, and for a fleeting moment, I consider the route of no return, faking an illness or _something, _anything to give me an excuse to leave. Come such a shocking declaration, I feel like I need the comfort of family as opposed to that of a handsome stranger whom I danced with until my feet were sore.

I just tell the truth, though all of my other options are tempting. "Derek, I presume it's now time for me to leave, wouldn't you think so?" I'm afraid he won't comprehend my sudden shift in mood, but he does.

"Alright, Eva, that's fine. I'll call you tomorrow, then." He stands up to see me off, which only makes me want to stay longer. Derek has the most alluring chocolate brown eyes and right now he is fixating them on me, making it hard to stick to my will and just leave. His hair is mocha hued and simple, basic; it's close to his head and cropped short, but he can still run his hand through it in the most attractive way and he does so now, his muscular frame perfectly statuesque as he looks at me.

"But you don't even have my number," I counter with a giggle. Before he can reply, I take a pen out of my big, designer purse and write it on his hand. Derek smiles crookedly.

"Well now I do."

I kiss him politely on the cheek, just as any innocent friend would do, and hurriedly depart.

…

Time has passed. Derek has just turned twenty-four, a week before reaping day which is today. I have tried to look pretty for it, and most likely succeeded. I have on bright orange lipstick and gloss, my medium length hair is wavy and half up whilst the other half is down, and I've dyed my hair a dark yet vibrant red for this occasion. My body is tinted a gleaming, glimmer rosy pink and shimmers with special make-up (albeit surgery contributes to the look) that I've applied. My nails are long and hot pink and my camouflage patterned pumps look fashion forward. The purple eye-shadow that I'm wearing now is causing a dramatic effect as wished for, and in this ensemble I knock on Derek's door. In the two months that have gone, we've become very close friends, to my mothers' delight. Currently, my father is resting in his elderly home and my mother has said she'll meet me at the city centre, what I refer to as The Square.

Derek answers the door dressed in a tuxedo, classy and elegant. "Shall we?" he bows, and I cannot resist a grin in reply.  
>"We shall," I say certainly, and onward we go.<p>

The walk is spent in silence, and if not that, poor conversation starters that fade into nothing. "Cute," he says, commenting on my thigh-length black wrap dress and diamond clutch. I say a polite thank-you and we walk.

"Impressive," I note at his shoes, for they are not in their usual sneaker, and tussle his hair. Derek smiles at me gently and laughs, but that is all.

Finally, we arrive in The Square, and from then on it is chaos. I see my mother, Glahourm Glow, in the midst of the crowd, and she screams my name, my full name, so everyone turns to stare. Authorities shuffle us gently into roped areas, splitting us up by age—and, to my dismay, gender. There is a bubbly, bright-eyed woman on stage that is standing next to a ball like the one I see on television in each one of the 12 Districts. I cough to clear the lump in my throat and blink a lot, silently willing my fake eyelashes not to stick together. I recognize her from town, but don't know her name, this woman with her smile. Our mayor speaks at length about this Quell, our previous ones, and _all _previous district winners, making this very long and more tedious than need be. I try and catch Derek's eyes, or my mothers', or even attempt to spot my sisters in the crowd, but can't, so I smile to myself and then resume my stony exterior.

He questions the legality of this Quell in a shaky voice, the mayor, and I strain to hear the only interesting thing he's said all day. "Due to the unusual circumstances of this Quell," he moistens his large lips nervously and goes on, "I've reviewed the laws crafted for Panem, our wonderful nation." Mayor M'kenzie Weep gives the camera an ultra fake smile and reluctantly goes forth, "Upon doing so, I've noticed a slight error in the ways of these Games, excluding the unfair aspect that Capitol citizens have never been permitted to participate in the Hunger Games…" And it all goes downhill from there.

When he finally finishes that damn required speech and shuts up, it's time to pick people. It goes like this; male-female-male-female, all the way to twenty-four. Several people I know get called instantly; Krystal Delilah, Roze Walden, Sailor Noyustri, and Fabitious Drew, whom are all friends of mine, get called, in that order. I am literally on the edge of my seat when the woman calls the next male name and it's _Derek, my Derek. _I literally scream aloud, and several people press against me, murmuring in uneasy comfort. This is nothing compared to the roar my mother gives (so _that's _where I get it from) when my own name, Evangeline Emerald, is called very clearly.

I almost faint, almost puke, almost cry, and proceed to do none of the above. In place of those disastrous options, I walk to the stage calmly and stand beside the other eighteen tributes. My sister, Jade Emerald (who is now Jade _Juneflower, _because she's twenty and _married_), is called additionally, at four spaces after me, one before last. Glahourm, the poor soul, actually faints in the midst of her weeping, making Jade cry too, since she's always been sensitive.

If this was an ordinary Hunger Games, half of us would be bet on losing in the bloodbath due to the sniveling and whimpers and tears that are now present. But this is a Quell, and so nobody is thinking of betting or the bloodbath, only still absorbing the shock. Twenty-four is finally called, and then it is over, but not truly over, because in a sense, it has only just begun.

…

_**a/n: yeah, sorry Irene. :p**_

_**So, since I'm not exactly up to thinking up x number of tribute names, I'm going to need your help. Name, description, and basic information in your review, please; it can be set up however you'd like. This isn't necessarily a SYOT, but I am still asking for tributes. How hypocritical of me. XD**_


End file.
